Everyday Scenes of Footslavery Volume 1
Scene no. 1 - The Everyday Loser in Footslavery!
She was never exactly what you would describe as 'a looker' – regular commuter customer-mistress Valerie; but nor was she some old boot! She was just your ordinary, office-girl nextdoor, come to have her office boots lickshined every day on her way home from work.
That was twenty years ago – and I have to confess I wouldn't have recognised her amongst the throng of female commuters stopping to have their busy shoes and boots tongue-cleaned at my railway-station shoelick-stand, had she not gleefully reintroduced herself to me after all these years!
Mistress Valerie! Well I never! I must say, just between you and me, she is looking better with age! Certainly more stylishly dressed than she used to be, in her crisp, white, businesswoman-like blouse; her black, pinstriped suit-jacket; her black, pinstriped pencil-skirt; her black cotton leggings; and her black leather, low-heeled, chisel-toed, calf-length, stretch boots with the thick, white, woolly bootsocks peeping out the tops!
She's still a 'young' woman, I suppose – must be in her early forties by now; whereas I am just truly old, being in my late sixties! Yet still she deigns to stop by me – albeit after a 20 year gap – in order to have her smart boots lickshined by my elderly slave-tongue. Such an honour!
It transpires (for she always was a bit of a chatterbox whilst having her officewear boots and shoes lickshined, if my footslave-memory serves me correctly; and, if not, she certainly is a chatterbox now!) that she left work to get married and start a family all those years ago, and now that her family are all grown-up, she's back in the workplace, albeit only part time!
Needless to say, being a public footslave I could never have taken a 'career break'; or started a family – since I'm owned by the Female State, and must work every day, tongueshining ladies' boots and shoes, until the day I die!
Middle-aged goddess-mistress Valerie now laughs at me, and mocks me, for having been stuck on this very same public-shoelick stand all this time, whilst she got on with her superior, female life with her freeman husband.
She does so just as my tongue reaches the upper rim of her right boot, and my forehead is therefore close to her white, woollen sock-top:
'Ha! Ha! Just think of all my nice pairs of boots and socks that you've missed seeing and licking while I was away from work, slave! Ha! Ha! I'll bet you missed serving my feet, didn't you? You pathetic, old slaveman! Ha! Ha! You always were a randy old lech for my boots! Ha! Ha!'
It is, indeed, a sobering thought – not just that mistress Valerie remembers me as a 'randy old lech', but that I have missed out on licking and kissing goodness knows how many pairs of her MILF shoes and socks over the years:
'Oh yes, mistress Valerie ...lick...lick... if it pleases you mistress Valerie, madam?... lick...lick...'
She stands triumphant – the ugly-duckling mistress who turned into a beautiful swan:
'Ha! Ha! Well, you'd better make up for lost time then, slave, hadn't you, yeah? Come on pops – lickshine the top of my boot! I wanna see my face in it! Ha! Ha!'
'Mom, can we go now? I don't wanna miss the next train, an' that?'
A younger version of mistress Valerie – just like the one I used to know all those years ago – steps into view, in a pair of blue denim jeans and scruffy, white sneakers with matching, scruffy white anklesocks!
'Just a minute, Crystal dear! Can't you see I'm having my boots licked by this pathetic old manservant? He's the one I was telling you about – the sad old lech outside the railway station who used to always lech after my boots and socks?'
'Tch! Just whip him, mom, and get a move on – or I'll just go ahead and get the next train home without you, yeah? I'm supposed to be meeting up with Rob tonight!'
The grubby-white sneakers of miss Valerie Mark II look as impatient as they sound!
Mistress Valerie Mark I, meanwhile, leans down to whisper in my bootlicking ear:
'Take your daughter to work week! Don't you just love it, slave? Ha! Ha! She's my youngest; my 18 year old Crystal. Miss Crystal to you, I suppose, slave? Ha! Ha! The pathetic old public-footslave of two generations! Ha! Ha!'
'MOM! HURRY UP OR WE'LL MISS THE TRAIN!'
'Alright, dear, I'm coming! Are you sure you wouldn't like slave ugly-face here to lickshine your dirty sneakers? Ha! Ha!'
'NO! THERE ISN'T TIME, MOM! COME ON, WILL YOU?'
The beautiful, calf-length, black leather stretch-boot is withdrawn, somewhat reluctantly I feel, from my face:
'Ha! Ha! Maybe you can get to lickshine my daughter's sneakers next time, eh slave? And have a good lech over them? Ha! Ha! What a pathetic old footslave-loser! Ha! Ha!'
And with that mother and daughter boots and sneakers rush off to catch their train.
Mistress Valerie is right, though – I would very much like the opportunity to 'lech' over her pretty, 18 year old daughter's grubby, white sneakers; for I am indeed a dirty old footslave-Lech, and always was!
And I am a pathetic footslave-loser! After all, as Miss Valerie so correctly pointed out, I lost out on 20 odd years of licking and admiring her boots and socks; and now I've just lost out on the chance of licking her 18 year old daughter's dirty and tatty, white sneakers! If that doesn't make me a loser in footslavery, I don't know what does!
Scene no. 2 – Seemingly Immaculate Concepción
To the rest of the boardroom meeting she looks immaculately turned out – smartly-dressed in her frilly, white, office blouse and her grey, pinstriped trouser-suit; her black, ringleted hair heavily coiffured; tastefully done make up on her pretty, Spanish features; with expensive jewellery hanging round her slightly plump neck; and to bottom it all off – a pair of shiny, black patent leather courts, and sheer, black cotton socks on her pretty feet.
Yes – my 36 year old mistress Concepción can still turn heads in the male boardroom with her sophisticated and elegant, Mediterranean beauty.
Even as I kneel beneath the boardroom table beside her crossed-over legs, in my capacity as her personal footservant, I have to admire the shininess of her shoes – a shine engendered by my tongue over breakfast this morning; for my mistress Concepción has cereal for breakfast, while I have shoe!
So proud am I of my personal footmistress’s shiny shoes, I do not even allow myself to be distracted by the feet of the other businesswomen seated around the boardroom table – not the shapely, if terribly skinny, dark-nyloned legs and matt-black stilettos of the twenty-something, Pakistani accountant-girl; nor the brown leather kneeboots and thick, brown, woolly tights of the thirty-something, blonde manageress-woman; I do not even allow myself to be distracted by the neighbouring, black leather ballet-flats and black socks with pink heels, of the young, dark-haired, oriental woman who appears to be the notetaker. She keeps on heel-popping subconsciously beneath the desk as she too is seated cross-legged – thereby revealing the attractive pink triangle at the back of her otherwise plain black sneaker-sock on the dainty foot of her crossed-over, right leg. I’m guessing that the reinforced toe-area of her Chinese sock may also be pink – to match the heel – but, sadly, that’s just idle sock-speculation on my part!
Anyway – the point is that I don’t allow myself to be distracted by the beautiful, Chinese girl’s socks beneath the table! They remain in my peripheral field of vision, as do all the other nicely attired feminine feet around me, as I dutifully concentrate on my pleasingly plump mistress Concepción’s immaculate, shiny, black shoes.
It is only when my mistress Concepción herself discreetly heel-pops beneath the table that I begin to see what no one else can see – her sock-flaws! For her plain, black, thinly-stitched, almost nylonesque, full-length, cotton anklesock is starting to grey with age, and with repeated sweat, wash and wear, along her shapely, if slightly podgy, Spanish instep.
She would, of course, be mortified if anyone other than myself – her personal footslave – spotted the grey and thinning, sweat marks on her ropey, black anklesock; but she doesn’t give a damn if I have to look at them. Indeed, if anything she likes showing me a ropey pair of black socks on her feet, since she, quite rightly, holds me in utter contempt. That’s because I am everything she is not:
· Old
· Ugly
· Male
· Dirty
· Stupid
· Emaciated
· Enslaved
· Forced to live life on my hands and knees
· Forced to obey others (especially her)
· Sexually impotent
· Whipped
· Going nowhere (except, maybe, ultimately to the slave-mines when she bores of me!)
So, for all of those reasons, my mistress Concepción realises she is my infinite better, and cares no more about a low-lying creature like me seeing her sweaty sock-lines than she would a bacterium stuck to the side of said sock!
Of course, as soon as the board meeting is over, and she is upstanding again – chatting away flirtatiously to the male Director of the company (one of her many secret admirers) in the corner of the boardroom – she looks immaculate once more, from top to toe! Her shiny black, right, court shoe is once again firmly on her broad, Spanish foot, and the only area of sock visible is the smart, pure black area, situated between the toe region of her shoe and her grey-pinstriped, trouser hem.
But I know the dirty grey secret of that seemingly immaculate black sock below the shoe-line – not that I’m about to tell anyone, of course (apart from you!)
Nor will I mention to anyone that she is pregnant, and regularly throws up in the morning! That’s not the image my immaculate, Spanish mistress wishes to project!
Scene no. 3 – Judicial Caning Processes
During the process of a judicial trial and flogging in the Gynarchy, one has to kiss an awful lot of female feet, if one wishes to minimize the amount of cane-strokes/pain that is to be inflicted on one’s bare buttocks:
· Firstly, one is expected to kiss the black leather ballet flats and black socks of one’s accuser-mistress 500 times (250 kisses per foot, evenly split between shoe and sock, in the female court room, in front of the good lady judge, that she may ascertain the degree of your maleslave humility and contrition towards your ‘wronged’ accuser-mistress
· Then one has to kiss the bright red stilettos and tan-coloured nylons (below the ankle) of the good lady judge herself – 1000 times prior to sentencing, by way of pleading for clemency; and 1000 times immediately after sentencing, by way of thanking and blessing the good lady judge for ignoring your footkissing plea for clemency, and for upholding the female law regardless of your penitent lips!
· Then one has to kiss the black leather, zipped-up, prison-officer-uniform ankleboots of the (usually young) female court bailiff 100 times, before she leads you down to the punishment cell; and a further 100 times once she has positioned you, face down, over the wooden punishment trestle for your caning, all the while thanking her for restraining you and putting you into bondage
· Then one has to kiss the white, laced-up, keds sneakers and short, white anklesocks of the white-coated female doctor 500 times, out of respect for her affirmation that you are fit to receive the dreadful punishment of the harsh, female cane (you aren’t allowed to solicit a second, medical opinion – of course!)
· Then you must kiss the feet of the black-leather-kneebooted, female caner (or caners) 250 times – by way of begging for raw mercy. You are expected to simultaneously blubber unmanfully over the caner(s) boots at such times also, for you know that you are about to be undone by the biting pain of the swishy, female cane (s)
· Then you must kiss the feet, 30 times each, of every female friend whom your accuser-mistress has invited along to watch your judicial punishment. The footkissing of the witnesses is limited to 30 per witness (15 per foot) lest your accuser-mistress brings a long list of friends to the punishment ‘party’!
· Then you have to kiss the plain, black ballet-flats and socks of your accuser-mistress again – before, during, and after punishment. Before normally entails 500 kisses. During will depend on the duration of the punishment – if, say, you have been sentenced to 30 strokes of the cane at your accuser-mistress’s feet, you will be required to kiss her feet 30 times after every 3 strokes; if you have been sentenced to 60 strokes of the female cane, you must kiss her feet 600 times after every 6 strokes; 100 strokes – 1000 kisses after every 10 strokes. It all helps to prolong your agony and humiliation – and woe betide you if you lose count or kiss feebly due to the pain – for the black-leather-kneebooted punisher(s) will merely repeat the cane-strokes until you do kiss your mistress-accuser’s sweet feminine, ballet-flats and socks satisfactorily. After your flogging is finished – in addition to however many kisses you are required to deliver to your triumphant and jubilant accuser’s feet under the above ‘footkiss-per-canestroke formula’ – you will be required to kiss her feet an additional 500 times as standard, all the while praising and blessing her for having you (falsely?) accused and punished
· Then you will be required to kiss the feet of every other female involved in either delivering, or witnessing, your caning – a further 30 times each (thus the female doctor; the female bailiff; the female caner(s); the female witnesses)
· Finally, you will be dragged to the good lady judge’s chambers where she will inspect your cane-wounds whilst you again kiss her, now unshod, sweaty-nyloned feet (for she has her feet up on a footrest and is relaxing after her long, hard day dishing out punishment-sentences in court) a further 1000 times by way of demonstrating your absolute defeat at the fair hands of the female law. The good lady judge shall also enquire of your accuser-mistress (who will have accompanied you to the lady judge’s chambers to gleefully witness your humiliation at the lady judge’s nyloned feet) whether she is satisfied as to your punishment, or wishes you punished further? You are then – very much – at the mercy of your accuser-mistress once again, for with just one little word – ‘no’ – she can cruelly put you through the entire judicial process again!
That’s a minimum of 5,900 footkisses to various, gloating female feet throughout the judicial process (assuming only one caner, and one witness, to a 30 stroke caning – usually the minimum sentence of caning imposed by the Gynarchy Courts!). And you could be about to go through it all again – on the whim of your accuser!
So you see, it is very much within your own selfish, maleslavish interests to humbly and penitently kiss the feet of all those young women around you in the female-judicial process – and with a goodly amount of maleslave eagerness and respectfulness!
Scene no. 4 - In an ideal fantasy world
There are some regular customer-mistresses to my local, sink-estate, public shoelick-stall whom I wish I could serve on a more intimate basis as a private footslave – sniff their socks and lick their bare feet, as opposed to just tongue-shining their outer footwear all the time!
Take miss Mirabel, for example – the pint-sized, twenty-something, black girl with the prominent teeth and stylish, dyed-red, short hair. She's a real beauty who turns freemale heads wherever she goes – but what attracts me to her is her fondness for wearing brightly-coloured, cartoon-themed anklesocks inside her scruffy and scuffmarked, plain black, low-top, lace-up sneakers. I would just love, in an ideal fantasy world, to be her personal cartoon-sock servant, charged with looking at, straightening, nosing, nuzzling, sniffing, kissing, licking and mouthwashing her everyday socks; in short, nurturing them!
Of course, miss Mirabel is blissfully unaware of her regular, public sneaker-licker's pathetic obsession with her cartoon-themed socks. She cannot conceive of such a thing (though I know she can conceive for she is currently pregnant) – her socks are just something she unthinkingly throws onto her dainty, black-girl feet every morning, in order to absorb her natural footsweat inside her cheap, sink-estate sneakers. There are no subliminal messages in the cartoon prints on her socks – just unpremeditated contempt for me, as the socks are incongruous beneath her ubiquitous, grey-pinstriped, office-suit, trouser hems (I believe she works as a clerk in the nearby Female Benefits office – so she'll know exactly what her entitlements are as a single mum!)
Some days – like today – she doesn't even speak to me as she climbs haughtily up onto the public-shoelick seat of power above me, as she is gabbling away happily on her phone to somebody else; possibly the real man who made her pregnant (as opposed to the slave man who admires her socks), or some fellow-black girlfriend or other. But, whoever it is has her full and undivided attention as she doesn't even bother to bark her young-womanly orders down at me through her prominent, white teeth, clearly expecting me to just get on with my humble business of lickshining her dirty, sink-estate sneakers!
In a way I'm glad, for if she's concentrating on her phone conversion above me she won't notice me surreptitiously sniffing and nosing the sides of her black and red-coloured, cartoon-print socks whilst I ostensibly lickshine the uppers of her bitter-tasting sneakers. It's the closest I can get to my pathetic fantasy of being her personal, devoted sock-servant!
The socks feel feminine soft on the tip of my nose, and smell fresh – but then, it is only morning-time and she is on her way into work, probably having just showered. I'll bet her socks smell a lot whiffier after her long, hard day at work in the Benefits' Office!
Oh to be her personal sock-servant, tasked with sniffing her sweaty, cartoon socks whilst she relaxes with her socked, pregnant feet up on the sofa at the end of a long, hard, working day! To follow those socks on their journey on her feet throughout the day! To sleep with her discarded, sweaty, red and black ankleocks on my upturned face! To then taste the very essence of her superior, young-womanly socksweat in my mouth as I mouthwash her dirty socks – the dirty, cheap cartoon socks of a bright and breezy, young black woman who has obviously had sex with a real man! To be legitimately required to obsess about her stinky, common-or-garden socks – the socks of a living, breathing, sexually active sockgirl!
Everyone would laugh at me, and comment on my pathetic obsession with my petite, bucktoothed, black mistress's socks, but she would happily explain to them that she requires me to focus on her lowly socks all day – under pain of the whip – because I am specifically her sock-slave!
I can but dream!
Scene no. 5 – Seeking Refuge
She’s being quite open and candid with me – the beautiful, dark-skinned, dark-haired and sultry-eyed, twenty-something, Indian girl – as she drags her flat, rubbery bootsole extremely roughly across my upturned, human-doormat face at the entrance to her local refuge for women.
It seems that her husband has been treating her like a doormat, therefore she has left him, temporarily at least, and is now taking out her female anger and frustration on my face – by using it as a wipe for her feet.
Which is fine, of course, because that’s precisely what my face is there for – to be walked over and wiped on by women’s boots and shoes.
I must say her own knit-patterned, black-crotcheted, ‘ugg-style’ boots look very nice from down below, as they seem to tower mightily and menacingly over me – even though they are only calf-length girlboots and their exotic, Indian wearer is quite petite in stature. Also, the black rubbery soles smell nice – though they are majorly rough on my sensitive face, thanks in part to the numerous little rubbery ridges in them, but due also to the way the slighted, Indian girl is really leaning down hard on my maleslave-doormat face as she scrapes her dirty, uggly bootsole along it.
This spurned and angry, young Indian woman really wants to hurt me, as well as humiliate me, as a means of taking out her frustrations on her violent husband! I am the vicarious male, suffering on his absentee, free-male behalf. And rightly so – for she can hardly attack a free man physically – two wrongs don’t make a right – not even here in the Gynarchy!
But physically harming me – a dirty, male doormat-slave – is perfectly acceptable under the Female Law; especially at the entrance to a women’s refuge!
Not that the Indian mistress looks particularly angry or upset; in fact, above her upper, black-woollen-knit bootrim and seemingly long (but actually quite short), blue-jeans-covered leg, she appears to be smiling – a cruel, wicked smile; the smile of a beautiful young Indian woman in a position of absolute power, who is enjoying mistreating a defenceless, male underling!
I can’t even answer her back – not even to sympathise with her plight or to encourage her to take out her anger on me by rubbing her bootsoles even more harshly across my prone and vulnerable, ground-level, upturned face. So I feel completely impotent – as would you with a beautiful, young Asian-Indian woman bearing down on you with her dirty, rubber bootsole, squashing you on your dumb and immobile face!
There is nowhere I can run and hide; nowhere that I can seek refuge from her angry ugg-boots. For I am, of course, firmly ensconced in the dirty ground, with only my face exposed to the elements (cruelly, just outside the covered porch at the entrance to the women’s refuge, so that, if it rains, my face gets automatically washed; it saves the owners of the refuge the expense of washing my face with dirty, used dishwater; the dirty rainwater is totally free!)
Yes, I’m completely at the mercy of the female Gynarchy-weather – as well as the mercy of the shoes and boots of the many angry young women who pass through these hallowed doors. And rightly so – for some hapless male has to pay for their disappointment and distress; it might as well be me!
Scene no. 6 – The Human Sockwasher
Every Gynarchy launderette has one – the human sockwasher.
If you are attractive and female it will pre-wash your socks even while you are still wearing them! You just sit down on the bench in front of where it is kneeling; slip off your shoes or boots in front of its face (or have the sockwasher take off your shoes or boots for you); wriggle your stinky, sweaty, sock-toes in front of its nostrils (so that it gets to know your personal sock-stink and can more easily identify where to lick hardest); and then relax whilst the automatic human-sockwasher licks the sweat and dirt-marks off your socks!
It will probably begin with the dirty soles of your socks; then proceed to the insteps; then the uppers – however high your socks may go, be they below-ankle, ankle, calf, knee, or even thigh-length socks. The only government stipulation is that they must be socks – not tights or stockings; there is a separate laundry-room slave for those!
Of course, your socks may be licked clean, but you cannot be expected to walk around in slave-saliva-sodden socks! And so the humble sockwasher will then proceed, with your feminine permission, to divest your feet of your socks, after which he will humbly handwash them in front of you, thereby extracting not just his dirty saliva, but also any remaining feminine footsweat from your teeming-with-bacteria socks. He will not take his eyes of your socks whilst he does so – since to look you in the eye would be a criminal offence.
He will then drink the bowl of your dirty sockwater, as a demonstration to his commitment to the cleanliness of your socks.
Then he will wring out your socks, and dry them for you. He will first use his breath, and then a hairdryer. If you have time, he will even kneel and watch your socks drip-dry whilst you are waiting for the rest of your clothes to be washed and dried in the launderette’s automatic washer-driers!
Once your socks are properly dried out, he will then iron them for you with a hot iron. He will then fold them away for you, or put them back on your dainty, feminine feet, in accordance with your female wishes. Either way he will kiss your finished socks twenty times – as an expression of his love for, and pride in, your freshly laundered socks. He will also invite you to beat him if you are not 100% satisfied with his performance on your socks.
And his sockwashing/sockdrying/sock-ironing services are all free of charge – so, ladies, make sure you utilise the human sockwasher the next time you take your dirty clothes to your local launderette!
Scene no. 7 – The Gentler Sex
Some customer-mistresses to my sit-down, public shoelick-stall are wonderfully kind and gentle creatures, who wouldn’t harm a fly!
That’s not to say, of course, that they wouldn’t harm a slave – but only if he was disrespectful; or disobedient; or incompetent.
One such mistress is pretty, pint-sized, 22-year-old, softly-spoken, Indian regular customer-mistress – miss Leela. Such a sweet and kind, young woman – as evidenced by the following conversation I have just had with her:
‘Morning, slave. How are you?’
‘Good morning, miss Leela! I’m very well thank you, most respected and beautiful mistress Leela! How may I serve you today, madam?’
‘Oh, just lickshine my new boots for me, would you? Although they look nice and shiny and clean, I’ve just walked through a muddy puddle on my way into work, and so I’m worried that there may be some mud stuck to the bottom of the soles and along the insteps.’
‘Yes certainty, miss Leela. It will be an honour and a privilege for me to tongue away any offending street-dirt from your brand, new boots. And may I just say, mistress, they are a truly beautiful pair of boots, mistress!’
Miss Leela is wearing a truly delightful-looking pair of shiny, black patent leather, round-toed and chunky, two-inch-heeled, zip-up ankleboots beneath her ubiquitous, black polyester, office trouser-suit hems. Her Indian feet are so dainty, I reckon I could swallow her boot-toe whole if she ordered me to!
‘Ha! Ha! Thanks, slave – do you like them? My boyfriend helped me choose them when we were out on a day trip to Femina yesterday (the Gynarchy’s second city). I have to be careful whenever I buy new footwear – because of my corns – but these boots seem really comfortable; and they were only 28 Fems! (the unit of currency in the Gynarchy)’
‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh congratulations, miss Leela! They were a bargain, mistress, if I may say so, mistress, for they truly beautify your already beautiful feet, miss Leela!... I wonder, mistress, is the mistress wearing nice, thick socks inside her boots today, in order to protect her corns?’
She innocently hitches up her right trouser-leg to reveal the top of her thick, black cotton bootsock:
‘Erm… they’re fairly thick, I suppose! But it doesn’t really matter about my socks, since I have thick corn-plasters covering both my corns!’
The talk of sweet and kind miss Leela’s toe-corns is getting me going, as is the sight of her black, cotton bootsocks:
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress Leela, would you like this slave to gently remove your boots, socks and corn-plasters from your feet, and to soak your corns in his mouth? It may help to soften them up for you, mistress?’
I make this offer more in hope than in expectation, for miss Leela is quite a foot-modest girl i.e. she is not the sort of mistress to impose her stinky socks and corn-calloused feet on a lowly, public bootlicker – more’s the pity!
‘Ha! Ha! No, it’s alright slave…maybe some other time. Right now I’m in a hurry, so just get on with lickshining my boots, please!’
‘Yes, mistress Leela! At once, mistress Leela!’
The trouser-hem is back down covering her shiny, black boot-top again, and I don’t push my offer to suck on her precious toe-corns any further – for any mistress, even one as sweet and gentle as miss Leela, can snap at any time if pushed too far. Even miss Leela herself has had occasion, once or twice, to apply the stinging, public-use, whipping stick to my bare back and shoulders when I have ‘missed a bit’ on one of her female-sized shoes or boots!
So I know when to stop talking and start licking; and, to be fair, there is indeed some dirty rainwater-mud splashed along the dainty instep of her left girlboot. And it is my inestimable privilege to utilise my dirty slave-tongue to return her shiny new, black leather, office ankleboots to their original, pristine condition.
I hope her boyfriend will be pleased!
Addendum by Miss Leela’s household footslave:
Glorious miss Leela is sweet and kind to me also! This is how she introduced me to her new boots:
‘These are my new boots, Pigface. Your master Robert bought them for me, so you need to make sure you show your undying respect for them whenever he is around! Make sure you stare adoringly at my boots whenever he is present, and you also have my female permission to lick off any dirt or dust from my boots on sight! Also, you need to make sure my black socks are nice and straight inside my boots in case he sees them when I’m sitting down! Now kneel in front of me and take off my boots and socks; you’re going to suck on my corns!’
‘Yes, miss Leela! At once, miss Leela! Please don’t beat me mistress!’
Scene no. 8 – FAQs
Twenty-five year old, blonde mistress Susannah is explaining to her, somewhat incredulous, female, office visitor from overseas, the roles and responsibilities of her personal, 'bring-to-work' footslave who is diligently kneeling at her black-leather-anklebooted and black-cotton-socked feet beneath her black, office trouser-suit hems whilst she is seated with her right leg crossed dominantly over her left at her office desk:
'Oh him? Ha! Ha! He's just my personal footslave – he has to accompany me to heel all day, and kneel beneath my desk next to my feet and silently stare at my boots and socks while I'm working above him.'
'Your boots and socks? But doesn't he get in the way?'
'Ha! Ha! Nah – he's very discreet! You can't actually see it, but he's fitted with a concentrator device inside his brain that delivers him an electric shock if he stops looking at, or even thinking about, my boots or socks even for one millisecond! Even if he glances up at my bare skin above my sock he gets a terrible shock to his brain, as I've set the concentrator device to just 'boots and socks' – so the device makes him instantly concentrate on my footwear again. He isn't even allowed to think about my bare feet! Ha! Ha!'
'But, if it gives him an electric shock every time his mind wanders away from your boots and socks, doesn't that make him cry out in pain and therefore disturb what you're doing?'
'Ha! Ha! No – I guess you could say he just has to suffer in silence, since I had his voicebox surgically removed! Ha! Ha!'
'You had his voicebox removed?! You mean, he can't talk?'
'Ha! Ha! Yeah – it was my husband's idea. I think he got fed up with all the slave's whining, so we just had it removed! Some masters and mistresses like to hear their slaves whining and begging for mercy, but we prefer to have a slave at home who just suffers in silence! Ha! Ha!'
'So, does he have to follow you to heel everywhere you go – throughout the entire day? I mean, erm, what about when you need to go to the restroom?'
'Oh he follows me into the stall, and still has to kneel next to my feet! Ha! Ha! It's not like having another human being in there with you – he's just a slave! Ha! Ha! And besides, as I've already explained, he's got a one track mind – he can only think about my boots and socks, thanks to the concentrator device!'
'Incredible! And what about when you're at home with your husband? Doesn't he get in the way then – especially when, you know, you want to get intimate with your husband?'
'Ha! Ha! No – we just banish him to the corner of our master-bedroom with my boots and socks, and he kneels there and sniffs them with his back to us while we make love! My husband even lets him kneel and massage my socked feet whilst we're both relaxing and cuddling up to one another on the sofa in front of the tele! He's quite magnanimous that way. And besides, he knows that having the slave massage my socks makes me all horny and in the mood to make love to him – my husband, that is! Ha! Ha! Obviously I'd never want to make love to a dirty slave! Ha! Ha!'
'Obviously! And where does your boot-and-sock slave sleep at night? In the corner of the bedroom?'
'Yep, you've got it! He sleeps nearby in case I need him for anything, and he uses my dirty boots and sweaty, unwashed socks as his pillows! Then the concentrator device silently wakes him at 5 A.M. so that he can mouthwash my dirty socks and tongueshine my dirty boots, ready for the morning.'
'Mouthwash your socks?! But, surely they wouldn't be ready for your feet first thing in the morning when you wake up? I mean, they'd still be damp with his saliva, wouldn't they?'
'Ha! Ha! Oh yes – it's not so that I can wear the same socks again; it's just our way of punishing and humiliating the slave, by making him taste my sweaty, stinky socks after his face has been lying on them all night! He eventually has to wash my socks properly, by hand, and he has to choose a fresh pair of socks for me from my sock-drawer every morning – to go with my boots, if I'm going into work; or with my sneakers, if it's one of my days off!'
'I see! I want to move to the Gynarchy and have a slave like this! Ha! Ha!'
'Ha! Ha! Well, Wei-Ling, in the meantime you can borrow mine, if you like? I can easily switch his concentrator device to concentrate on your black ballet-flats and socks! Why don't you try him out and see if you like having a slave under your feet all the time! You can even take him back to your hotel room tonight, if you like, and make him sniff and massage your socked feet! Ha! Ha!'
'Could I? That's very generous of you, Susie! I'd like that very much! But, won't you miss him? I mean, what about your own boots and socks?'
'Ha! Ha! One night without my dirty socksniffer won't kill me! Ha! Ha! And in any case, like you said earlier, it might be nice to spend a night alone with my husband -–just for a change; without having a socksniffing queer cringing in the corner of our bedroom and sniffing my dirty socks out loud! Ha! Ha! So, you'd actually be doing me a favour!'
'Cool! It's a deal, then! Ha! Ha! My very own sockslave for the night! Wait until I tell all my friends and family back home in Hong Kong! Ha! Ha! They'll be so jealous! Well, the girls will, anyway! Ha! Ha!'
Scene no. 9 – I like the smell of my mistress Katrina’s socks
My slim and svelte, 35 year old, blonde-haired, personal footmistress – mistress Katrina – sure knows how to keep me humble at her perennially anklebooted and socked feet. She makes me wear a personal footfool-mask which covers my head; is made of garish-green rubber; has not two, but three, pointy, asinine-shaped ears, wonky eye-slits, a misshapen mouth, and a bright red, rubbery, pig-snout shaped nose; and humiliatingly contains the following words written on it in big, bold, black letters – right the way across my gormless-looking, green-rubbery face:
‘I like the smell of my mistress Katrina’s socks’.
How everyone laughs at me, and makes fun of me, when they see me following my beloved mistress to black-anklebooted heel, especially if a slither of her black, red, white or yellow bootsocks is showing beneath her black cotton, bootcut trouser-hems, for they know I am desperately trying to catch a whiff of my beautiful mistress’s stinky, everyday socks whilst she is still wearing them inside her boots:
‘Ha! Ha! Get your red-rubbery snout closer to the backs of those socks, slave-boy! Sniff them hard, and sniff them out loud – for we all want to see how much you admire the smell of your mistress Katrina’s stinky socks!’
‘Ha! Ha! What a queer socksniffer – blatantly declaring his love for sweaty, female socks! It’s obvious that he loves sniffing dirty socks, since it’s written all over his face! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Are you a man, or a socksniffer, slave? Ha! Ha! I guess you’re the latter, since you can’t seem to take your wonky eyes off the backs of your mistress’s sweaty, black bootsocks! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a lamebrain!’
‘Ha! Ha! Do you just like the smell of your mistress’s sweaty socks, slave, or are you a bit partial to the taste of other ladies’ sweatsocks also? Mm…Yum! Yum! Sweaty, feminine bootsocks for tea! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Why do you have three ears, sockboy? Is it so that you can hear your mistress Katrina calling you over to sniff her dirty socks of an evening? Ha! Ha! You wouldn’t want to miss that opportunity, would you slave? Stale, sweaty bootsocks being rubbed all over your face whilst your beautiful, blonde mistress is still wearing them on her pretty, white feet! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Sniff the bobbled, grey sock-lint off your mistress’s black-socked feet with your big, rubbery snout, green sockpig! Ha! Ha!’
‘Trace your snout down the patterned stitching in your mistress’s, bright yellow bootsocks, slave, and tell us whether the different types of sock-stitching smell the same or not! Ha! Ha! Socknose!’
‘Ha! Ha! There are bacteria in your mistress Katrina’s socks that are better than you, sockqueer! Look at you – breathing in the aroma a young, blonde woman’s dirty, white sweatsocks! Ha! Ha! What a dork – a sock dork! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Harry! I’ll bet the ignorant sock-dork wishes he could be one of those superior sock-bacteria on his mistress’s dirty socks? He aspires to be a female-sock-dwelling bacterium! Ha! Ha!’
And so it goes on – hour after hour; day after day; week after week – a constant barrage of disparaging comments directed towards me by mistress’s family and friends – or even, on occasions, by total strangers:
‘Cor blimey, love – like the way you treat your dirty sockslave! Ha! Ha! Makin’ him crawl behind you with his thick, ugly, rubbery snout glued to the backs of your pretty anklesocks! Ha! Ha! Grunt your approval of your gorgeous mistress’s socks inside her boots, green-faced sockpig – Oink! Oink! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Mind if I take a picture of your masked sockpig sniffing your socks, darling?’ (my mistress Katrina never does mind!)
‘What’s that thing over there kneeling behind that blonde lady’s boots, honey?.... A ‘sockfool’, you say?....Ha! Ha! What’s that when it’s at home, then? Some kind of queer, female-sock loving footslave?...’
‘Ha! Ha! What do you say to your mistress every evening after she gets home from work and kicks off her warm, sweaty boots? More sock stink…more sock stink please, mistress, if you would be so kind to me please, mistress? Ha! Ha!’
‘Tell us, slave – and tell us quickly or we’ll have you whipped – do you like your sockmistress to wear her socks slovenly or tidy? Say, for example, while you’re tracing your nose down a line of sweat in her white sock – do you yearn to feel lots of creases and folds in the sock while you’re sniffing it, or would you prefer it to be all straight and neat, and upright? Ha! Ha! We’d be curious to know, slave, since you’re such an expert on your mistress’s lowly socks! Ha! Ha!’
‘Does it anger you when you can’t actually see your mistress’s socks, slave? Say like, when her socks have slipped deep down inside her black leather ankleboots – due to the sweat on her feet? Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Do you ever talk, or even think, about anything other than your mistress’s socks, slave? Or is that the sum total of your pathetic existence? Ha! Ha!’
Of course, to all these scathing questions I have no choice but to lispingly reply (the crooked shape of the rubbery mouth causes me to lisp whenever I speak through my mask):
‘Yeth, moth rethpected mithtreth-madam; yeth, moth rethpected mathter-thir. I am indeed a queer thockpig for my mithtreth’s thocks, ath you can thee from my rubbery footfool-fathe, if it pleatheth you thuperior mathter and mithtreth!’
How my betters all roar with laughter my pathetic, lisping, sock-craven response!
But the simple fact of the matter is that my rubbery sockfool-mask speaks the truth far more eloquently than I could ever verbalise – I do actually like the smell of my mistress Katrina’s socks!
Scene no. 10 – ‘Wanted – Full-Time Sockservant’
The following is a small-ad in a local Gynarchy newspaper:
‘Wanted – full-time sockservant for pretty, 23 year old, recently married, dark-haired, Latina mistress.
No previous experience necessary – though previous sock-servitude an advantage.
Duties to include the following:
· Following the mistress to socked heel
· Publicly kissing, nosing and/or nuzzling the mistress’s socks in order to enhance her status in the eyes of her family and friends
· Mouthwashing her dirty socks on a daily basis
· Handwashing her socks on a daily basis
· Mouthdrying her socks on a daily basis
· Ironing, pressing, and folding her socks on a daily basis
· Management of the mistress’s live-in sockdrawer
· Management (including lickshining and polishing) of her associated outer footwear
When the mistress is not wearing socks the sockservant shall be required to remain in the mistress’s live-in sock drawer, surrounded by her socks.
The sockservant shall be fitted with a concentrator device set to ‘socks’, and shall be permanently masked with a sock-themed, rubber mask.
The sockservant shall be required to refer to his mistress’s socks in every slavespeak utterance, by way of demonstrating his complete commitment to her socks.
The sockservant shall be required to survive on a meagre diet of dirty-sock-soiled bread and dirty-sock-soiled water.
The sockservant shall be subject to the discipline of the female whip.
Applications must include a 400 word summary on why the sockservant-candidate believes he is fit to serve the mistress’s socks.’
The following is my 400 word summary:
‘Oh pray, pretty Latina sockmistress; if it pleases you pretty, Latina sockmistress, truly this slave would deem it an honour to be your personal sockservant, as he is completely devoted to women’s socks.
Oh mistress, though I am, quite rightly, considered old and ugly, mistress, if you will be so kind and understanding, mistress, this slave is nonetheless a fully-qualified, fully-trained, sockservant of many years’ experience, having previously been a public sockservant in a local launderette, mistress, where he has been honoured and privileged to attend to the dirty socks of many beautiful young women, mistress. He has experience of mouthlaundering and ironing female socks, and has a certificate in sock-husbandry from the Footslave Training College of Central Barbaria, mistress.
Whilst he has very much enjoyed his twenty years of public sock-servitude, mistress, this slave is now obliged to seek out new sock-employment having been made redundant due to the closure of said launderette, mistress, and he now feels ready to devote himself body and soul to the socks of a personal sockmistress.
He will be totally and exclusively loyal to your socks, Latina mistress, and shall be honoured to wear a sock-themed mask and be fitted with a sock-concentrator device, since he wishes for nothing more than to be associated with your socks. Truly it will be an honour to live on bread and water that has been contaminated by the bacteria from your dirty, worn socks, mistress.
This slave will make a point of diligently studying his mistress’s socks at all times, whether they be on her feet or resting in her live-in sockdrawer – his new home. He will get to know, and admire, the smell of the mistress’s socks, and to appreciate the taste of her personal socksweat. He will lay down his life for the mistress’s socks should the need arise.
This slave shall be honoured to be subject to the sting of the mistress’s whip, and will be respectful to the mistress’s family and friends, including her husband, whom he shall regard as his master, if it so pleases the beautiful, Latina sockmistress?
Oh pray mistress, oh pray! Pray give this unemployed, former sock-laundry slave the opportunity to demonstrate his love and commitment towards the mistress’s dirty socks, and banish him to the underground slave-mines should he fail to live up to the mistress’s high expectations. I am at the service of your socks, mistress!’
Addendum: I didn’t get the job. The feedback was that I wasn’t ‘keen enough’.
